Possessions
by Azii
Summary: Hirato/Akari. Well, actually it's Akari/Hirato. Technically this could be PWP, but I flatter myself and consider it a character study of sorts. A between-the-sheets character study, or more accurately, a bent-over-the-desk character study. Anyway, it really is a character study, I swear.


Prompt fill for an undisclosed reader who wanted Akari/Hirato smut with Akari as seme. I'd have attached this to Karnevalesque, but I wanted to keep the T rating on that series.

This story will require some suspension of disbelief.

Also, maripas, if you're reading, I'm working on your prompt. Would you believe you set me a more difficult task than writing sex? Geez.

* * *

_It's to do with knowing and being known. I remember how it stopped seeming odd that in biblical Greek, knowing was used for making love. Whosit knew so-and-so. Carnal knowledge. It's what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face. Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy … we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation. _- Tom Stoppard

* * *

Akari's been bent over his desk enough times to know exactly how Hirato feels at present: just a trace indignant at the fact that he's being so effectively dominated (even by an intimate); irritated at Akari's stubborn refusal to quicken the pace; and paradoxically, he's absolutely, utterly turned the fuck on.

Both men are accustomed to dictating, to contriving happenings according to their respective directives. As such, being subject to authority is uncommon and surprisingly addictive. But only between the two of them; to render such obedience to anyone else would be sacrilege. So much of their very selves is given away, after all—to subordinates, patients, colleagues, and to Circus' vague notion of human progress. But this—the feeling of being possessed completely—this is off-limits to the world. _This_ is something gifted only to each other.

So yes, Hirato is turned the fuck on, not in spite his current position, but _because_ of it. And Akari understands as much; the pulse racing under his fingertips indicates thus.

To the blond's credit, he did not simply collect due recompense for being repeatedly taken on top of his own workstation. No, Akari extracted interest. He has Hirato against the control console of Airship Two. It's fortunate that the ship can fly itself, what with its captain being so… indisposed. There'll be hell to pay, the physician knows, likely in a Research Tower laboratory, probably at mid-day. Until then, he smiles at the thought of Hirato cleaning up the inevitable mess before any crew learn of their superior's less-than-professional nocturnal proclivities.

The doctor rolls his hips, eliciting a gasp from his porcelain-skinned paramour. Having an acute knowledge of human anatomy gives him tremendous advantage. He angles his next thrust meticulously and slides inside in an excruciatingly slow manner. The motion causes his entire length to brush against the brunet's prostate.

This assertion is confirmed as Hirato's palm slaps atop the counter. Had the captain been wearing his Circus ID, the damage would have been substantial (and difficult to explain).

A dark chuckle resounds. "Careful, Hirato. We wouldn't want any aviation mishaps." He pulls back in the same languid manner, recognizing that his partner will cave in short order. That's what he truly desires—all of his lover's demolished defenses lying in rubble at his feet.

"You…" Imperiousness underscores that rich baritone, but even it will falter soon. "…are the most frustrating man I've ever met."

Akari pecks across a tense shoulder-blade and bites gently at the nape of the other man's neck. One of his hands grasps a lean hip while the other snakes towards the crown of Hirato's penis, slipping a tentative, barely-there thumbnail into the slit.

Frustrating indeed.

Hirato moans. A few flighty touches of skilled fingers along exceedingly sensitive skin have the commander leveraging the table and pushing back in order to increase the friction, if not the tempo. "Faster." He's still giving orders, apparently. This will never do.

"No." As if demonstrating said denial, Akari wraps his hand around the other's shaft and squeezes. Hard.

"Fuck, Akari..." A growl materializes in Hirato's tone. _Now we're getting somewhere_, the strawberry blond thinks mischievously.

"Yes, precisely." Another quick squeeze before he removes his hand and brackets the other hip.

He glides in to the hilt and stalls, not only because it will put intense, unyielding pressure on the other's pleasure point, but also because he'd rather not have the sensation of tight and hot sending _him_ careening off the edge. Akari plans to enjoy this, to savor it. Remaining so seated, he closes his mouth around the captain's vertebrae one at a time, relishing the taste as he leisurely works his way up a pale, sweat-slicked back. Soft lips travel again to a graceful neck, leaving in their path a neat pattern of bruises in perfect alignment with the brunet's spine. "Are you okay?" Akari inquires, gently nudging the edge of an ear. The answer is always obvious, but he asks each time regardless.

"I would be much better than okay if you would _move_." It's true. The physician can feel a slight trembling coursing through muscular limbs and the swoosh of heated blood rushing just below the flesh he's exploring—tell-tale signs of imminent discomposure. The commander's hands are balled into fists as he attempts to corral the various stimuli wreaking havoc on his system.

"You're being unusually impatient tonight, _captain_."

And that's when his rhinestone-eyed companion looks back to face him, making him groan at the sudden shift. A dangerous smirk plays at the corner of Hirato's mouth. Hooded violet irises are but a thin ring around blown pupils. He looks downright predatory with untidy locks falling into his face and trademark restraint merely an iota from coming undone.

_My god he's beautiful, _Akari concludes right before Hirato switches to the side again, dislodging his hold and interrupting his focus. It takes several minutes to gather himself. _And a bastard. _"A beautiful bastard," he mumbles under his breath.

"What was that, _doctor_? I didn't quite catch it." Another twist of the hips and Akari is clawing at the console in lieu of dragging scars into Hirato's back. It's tempting to do so under the circumstances, but he's not the vindictive sort. Not often, anyway.

He's certainly had enough trickery, though. He slams into Hirato with enough force to effect a grateful moan. Momentary silence ensues. "That's better," he whispers, circling the other's member before being distracted again. There's no end to the brunet's capacity for manipulating a situation, _any_ situation.

Hirato's won this round; the blond is compelled to hasten his ministrations, true. But that beautiful bastard has not won the game—not when the rapidly increasing pace of Akari's thrusts mimics the way he strokes Hirato, not when the doctor's tongue seems intent on sampling every millimeter of skin it can reach, and not when the thought of being marked, being taken, being _owned_ by this extraordinarily frustrating man is enough to make the captain surrender every ounce of posturing and artifice he possesses.

"Faster..." Hirato pants. "Harder." Those aren't commands anymore; they're requests.

Akari obliges, his physician's keenness perceiving that the other's climax is approaching fast (as is his own). It would be impossible not to fall apart immediately after being so over-stimulated.

For all his typical charms, Hirato is positively mesmerizing when he comes. Perspiration makes alabaster skin glow under the acid green lights of various monitors and controls. Damp, inky hair lay in odd angles from being handled by Akari's desperate fingers. Finely-controlled tremors work through a lithe, powerful body as he grips the console's edge, back arched fluidly and eyes clamped shut in sublime pleasure.

It's no wonder, then, that it does not take much for Akari to follow suit.

One might think climaxing so forcefully that your vision burns white is the apex of pleasure, but one would be mistaken. Sex with Hirato is like nothing else. It's what follows orgasm that really blows Akari's mind.

The blond wraps shaking arms around his bedmate (or deskmate, as it were), extricates himself with paramount caution, and flops exhaustedly into the chair Hirato often occupies. They collapse into a wet, sticky tangle. It's a rare occasion for him to have the commander in his lap, but he does now, enjoying the warm weight as their breathing slowly steadies. It's amazing, really—the manner in which the brunet is uncharacteristically placid in the wake of their tryst; the way his hand unconsciously seeks out Akari's own; how his every fluttering heartbeat can be felt if the researcher presses close—incontrovertible evidence that the man has a heart.

These moments belong to Akari alone, and if he has his way, no one else will _ever_ see Hirato like this. He's possessive as well; he simply stakes his claim with more subtlety than the irresistible rake sitting on top of him.

The captain's forehead rests against an unscathed portion of the table, sweat dripping along an angular jaw. He uncurls his fist, revealing the tiny red crescents that have formed along its palm. "Well, well," Hirato resumes his playful tenor with some effort, "Who knew SSS-ranked Researcher Akari was so shameless? Bizante-sama would demand your head for such disgrace."

"He'd also murder you in your sleep for your corrupting influence," Akari counters swiftly, "...and I'd let him."

"Yes, you likely would." The brunet nods in agreement, wicked delight curling his next words. "I'll have vengeance for this, you know." He sounds like he might very well make good on his threat to debauch Akari during Round Table.

The physician laughs in earnest and leans forward to kiss Hirato's shoulder. "I expect no less."

More than a little time passes unmarked before they're able to dress themselves again—in clothes _and_ masks.

* * *

And now my burning ears are an unsightly, mottled red. I'll be hiding in my closet if anyone needs me. You really should get your daily fill of smut from more adept authors; I'm ill-equipped for it in so many ways.

On the subject of seme!Akari: I'm unconvinced that the doctor is some shrinking violet or that he's relegated to submission in all his interactions with Hirato. For example, Akari smacks the shit out of Hirato (and yells at him to do his job) in Chapter 63 or 64. It might be 65 actually, but it definitely happens. The craziest thing about this is that Hirato actually does what he's told.


End file.
